Happiness Runs
by Liete
Summary: -UK/US/UK- 'To sum up in mere words how he feels is an impossible feat, but if he were to even attempt it, he can only put it simply. He's happy.'


**Happiness Runs  
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**By: Liete**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia or any of the characters portrayed.**

**A/N: From the Hetalia kink meme. Warning for high levels of sap, heh.  
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Happiness.

England sips at a weak cup of tea - the best he could manage in America's dismally stocked kitchen - and peers at America across the table. America is whining about how his kitchen is destroyed thanks to England's cooking efforts, and England merely flashes his index and middle finger - a reverse peace sign - in response. America pouts over his bowl of cereal with its brightly colored marshmallows and refuses to look England in the eye. They remain like this, in silence, until they both raise their heads so their eyes meet. At first they merely stare at each other, as if waiting for the other to crack. Finally, America's mouth quirks up into a small smile that grows in intensity until he's beaming so much that he looks almost manic.

But England knows that he isn't much better. His own smile is much smaller, but it's there just the same. His chest feels tight, but not in a painful way. His cheeks are warm and he can feel his heart pounding behind his ribcage. To sum up in mere words how he feels is an impossible feat, but if he were to even attempt it, he can only put it simply.

He's happy.

He's still afraid that he'll wake up from this dream, and he won't be in America's house. America won't be shifting his chair over so they can lean over and kiss, smiling against each others' mouths as they breathe each other in. It doesn't matter that the taste in America's mouth is an odd mixture of bubblegum flavored toothpaste, instant coffee, and sugary cereal. America's hair is tangled beneath his fingers, but still soft. England closes his eyes and loses himself to the simple pleasure of America's mouth on his. A joy he'd never dared hope would ever truly be his.

America pulls away, grinning, and declares that they should take a shower soon so that England can take his old man pills afterwards. England hits him over the head as he laughs merrily, but then their fingers tangle as America takes England's hand in his, tugging him up the stairs to his personal bathroom.

America's sheets are still soiled, but neither pay any mind to it. They were too caught up in each other the night before to care, as well. England had been too busy worshiping the body beneath him, because even if they haven't actually said it in words yet, he was careful to put his feelings into the tender kisses and caresses he had laid upon America's body.

_I love you. I love you. I love you so._

Then he'd taken America, slowly and deliberately, so that America would feel every bit as much pleasure as he had. America's open-mouthed smiles, groans, and the way he arched to meet England halfway had been all the indication he needed that America had indeed enjoyed their lovemaking. Laying in America's arms afterwards, England's heart had threatened to burst out of his chest. Such overwhelming emotions, too strong to put in words.

Happiness.

America remarks that although he looks good in stars and stripes, England will look much better without any boxers at all. England tsks at his cheek, but complies without a fuss, because America does the same, pulling open the door to his shower and tugging England inside with him. They kiss again under a spray of hot water - slow, open-mouthed and languid. Getting clean is the furthest thing from their minds.

England lets America take control this time, and he doesn't know why America has a tube of lubricant among the soaps in his shower, but he doesn't question it either. He hooks his arms around America as they're both prepared, then he lets a small groan escape as America carefully hoists him up, propping him against the shower wall, and pushes inside him.

America murmurs an endearment that makes England's heart flutter, although he insists that his heart is not sweet, thank you very much. He can feel America's grin against his neck, but that's quickly replaced by a tender kiss. Under the spray of water, with America moving inside him, he feels nearly feverish, but he welcomes the haze that clouds all rational thoughts except that he's with America. America in him, with him, the two of them together. He can only lose himself to sensation, clinging to America and gasping his own endearments until he reaches his peak, with America following not long after.

England considers himself lucky that America is holding him against the wall, because his legs feel too weak to support him. America continues to hold him, kissing his face as he reaches for a bottle of cheap smelling liquid soap to clean them both with. England finally comes to himself as the hot water starts to go lukewarm and his fingers begin to wrinkle. They kiss again, and England still can't believe this is real.

England only has neatly pressed suits in his luggage, because he never would have imagined what this trip would have turned into when he packed, so he winds up with a pair of America's drawstring trousers and a t-shirt that he nearly drowns in. America acts appropriately scandalized when England comments on the size of the clothes, and they both turn red when America retorts that England should know very well what sort of body he really has.

There's an old oak tree in America's garden, its leaves brilliantly red above and around them, and they eventually find themselves there, where England sits with his back against the trunk and America's head in his lap. America has a comic book, and England has a collection of Shakespeare's works found in America's library that America swears he never knew he owned. They read, and England strokes America's hair, until America grows bored and restless and throws some of the leaves into England's face. England sputters and furiously wipes them away in time to see America taking off across the garden, daring England to catch him.

Never one to back down from a challenge, England gives chase while America squawks and flees in mock terror. Although he puts up a rather valiant fight, England finally trips on the too long trousers he's wearing, and he goes tumbling down into a pile of gold and red leaves. Not long after, America appears above him, leaning over his fallen body and grinning. The grin softens into a warm, fond smile as England reaches up to touch America's face, tracing his jaw and dragging his fingers to rest near America's lips. He can't help but marvel at the whirlwind of events that have occurred in not even twelve hours. He's so very much in love, but he's not alone. They still have yet to actually say it, but the meaning came through loud and clear in America's red-faced admission that he'd like for their "Special Relationship" to be more than just a political title.

America leans down, closing the distance so he can kiss England again, though no matter how many times they do it, it will never be too much. England pulls him down, flush against him, and kisses back for all he's worth.

And he's so happy he can hardly bear it.


End file.
